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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23869279">Since I Saw You Last</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_or_die/pseuds/tea_or_die'>tea_or_die</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Love Notes [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Quarantine, Sad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:49:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>539</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23869279</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_or_die/pseuds/tea_or_die</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After they met up in Vegas, Dean was going to visit his brother while Castiel took care of some business in New York before they connected again in Nashville. Life had other plans.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Love Notes [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1720198</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Since I Saw You Last</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dean reaches for the door handle and looks back, sighing. The life of a touring rock star is never easy, and it’s especially complicated when an (</span>
  <em>
    <span>overcompensating</span>
  </em>
  <span>) manager’s incessant need to maintain an image means leaving the (</span>
  <em>
    <span>secret</span>
  </em>
  <span>) boyfriend of five years who should be a (</span>
  <em>
    <span>public</span>
  </em>
  <span>) husband by now behind in a fancy hotel room at three a.m. to catch an early flight. The years together have taught them that notes left or wakeups to say goodbye make parting hurt that much more. Castiel will wake in roughly four more hours when his alarm goes off; no reminder is left that Dean was there except his scent on the pillowcase (</span>
  <em>
    <span>dad’s jacket, campfires, mom’s perfume</span>
  </em>
  <span>). </span>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>******</p>
</div><p>Weeks have past when Castiel finds himself reminiscing about that morning. The first few moments of soft sleepy haze before the world roared in, moments when his synapses didn’t connect that Dean’s smell could be present without Dean. (<em>Shroedinger’s Boyfriend?</em>) He wishes he’d stolen that stupidly high thread-count pillowcase from that stupidly expensive hotel. That he’d packed it safely, sealed it tight to keep the remnants of <em>Dean</em> from leaking out. So that in these worst of times he could use them to patch up the tattered bits of his day dreams. He sees Dean every day - through a video screen, hears him every day - through audio speakers, but it’s cold, impersonal and that (<em>god. damned.</em>) pillowcase with it’s too many threads to count that captured leather, woodsmoke, sandalwood <em>Dean</em> in each and every one would warm up this lonely apartment where he’s stuck by himself for who knows how much longer (it better not be forever).</p><p>Castiel glances at the clock. It’s 5:58pm. Dean calls every single night at 6pm. Perking up a bit, Castiel tidies up the already tidy reading nook, and although the sky has remained clear and cloudless all day, with only a few seconds left until the clock strikes the hour, the apartment somehow seems brighter. The second hand on the semi-broken cuckoo clock (<em>is it still a cuckoo clock if it doesn’t, y’know…”cuckoo” anymore, Cas?</em>) ticks to six o’clock and Castiel really needs to turn the brightness down on his phone because <em>wow</em> Dean’s FaceTime picture is lighting up his whole apartment. As Castiel answers the call (<em>“Hello, Dean” “Heyya, Cas”</em>) the world around him seems softer at the edges.</p><p>Illness has staggered, shuttered and stopped cities and lives the world over and there’s no knowing when, or if they’ll truly get back to normal. Castiel thinks back on the time he and Dean have already spent in a state of unknowing (<em>“would Dean choose a wife for his career over me?” “When is Cas gonna realize he deserves to be with someone who’s out?”</em>) and how the things they did to work through it together are keepsakes unto themselves. As Dean sits in the corner of his brother’s couch, tuning his guitar so he can play Castiel the song he just finished writing, Castiel finds himself trusting that they’re crafting keepsakes once again (<em>Don’t hide behind your teacup, Cas. I called to see </em><em>your</em><em> mug, not </em><em>a</em><em> mug, you dork</em>) and swears the breeze coming in the open window smells like treasured memories.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Inspired by the poem posted April 26, 2020 on the account @alma on Instagram. I'm aware of the rumours surrounding the account and while I personally shy away from rps, I hope some of you enjoyed the tongue in cheek references I've included.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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